


The Hand

by greenmtwoman



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Brienne is the Best, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Jaime has problems (as always), Qyburn is creepy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:00:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27302317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenmtwoman/pseuds/greenmtwoman
Summary: “If you could write your name?  Hold a goblet?  Touch a woman?”  Qyburn leaned forward and stared into Jaime’s eyes.  “If you could swing a sword again?”
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 14
Kudos: 50





	The Hand

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Halloween! I'm posting this to get it out of my head; horror is not my thing. Also, I've messed with the timeline a bit.

He hadn’t known that such pain existed. _I’m a knight. I can stand pain. But not like this._ No part of Jaime’s body was free of agony. It was centered in his stump and radiated to the roots of his hair and the soles of his feet. His hand… his hand burned, fire lancing through the flesh, bones and sinews. He dimly knew that it couldn’t be. His hand wasn’t at the end of his arm. It was hanging around his neck, rotting and stinking, so why did it still torment him?

There was a presence near him. _Wench_ , his mind thought vaguely. He couldn’t remember her name, but she was warm. He spoke. He wanted to die. She made him eat, which was no use. Between the pain and the stench, he vomited again and again. She cleaned him. He found a sword and tried to fight. He hoped they would kill him, but he ended up face down in the mud, and they laughed. No one ever laughed at him. _I am a Lannister. I am the Kingslayer._ But they jeered and laughed. He vomited again and realized that he had pissed and shit himself as he swayed in the saddle, lashed to the warm wench. She cleaned him with cold water and dressed him again in wet breeches from which the filth had been rinsed. It went on and on. They threatened the wench and he made up a ridiculous, fevered lie, which they stupidly believed. She was warm, and without her this hell would be even more agonizing.

Harrenhal. Roose Bolton welcomed them with icy pale eyes that showed nothing. Vargo Hoat spluttered questions and demands and was brusquely dismissed. Jaime’s rotting hand was taken away. He was parted from the stubborn warm wench, who was still tiresomely going on about the Stark girls. His head continued to swim as he stumbled through endless shadowed courtyards and passages. His escorts… _Or are they still captors?_ …talked over his head.

“The fucker hasn’t been seen for a week.”

“I don’t miss ‘im.”

“No one does. When they found that girl…”

“None o’ that lot would be missed. An’ now there’s more of ‘em come back.”

“Lord Bolton likes a quiet life in a quiet castle and he hasn’t been getting one.”

“Aye, and I wouldn’t want to cross him. He’ll flay you with those eyes.” Jaime wondered dimly what they were talking about, but he didn’t really care.

Finally he was pushed through a door and brought to a man in gray who looked like a maester, though he had no chain. His face was kindly and his brown eyes warm. Perhaps it was only the fever that made Jaime see something strange slither behind those eyes. The man said his name was Qyburn, and tutted and murmured over Jaime’s stump. The rotting hand was gone, but the phantom hand still flared and burned. “ Hmm. Hmm. Ser Jaime?”

 _That’s me._ “Yes.” His own voice was strange and hoarse in his ears.

“I’m afraid there is corruption. I will have to remove the remainder of your arm.”

“No!”

“I can cut away the mortifying flesh, but…”

“No!” He tried to grasp the man by his skinny neck, but he was so weak. He fell back in his chair. _Where is the wench?_

The chainless maester sighed, but there was a change in his face, a spark of interest. “Perhaps… I have done research. There might be an alternative. If you could have your hand back?”

Jaime gave a despairing laugh. “The rotted one? I believe it’s already been thrown in the midden heap. Or will you grow me a new sword hand?” _I was that hand._

“Neither my lord. I wasn’t precise. What if you could have a hand back? Then it would be yours.”

“How? Impossible.”

“If you could write your name? Hold a goblet? Touch a woman?” Qyburn leaned forward and stared into Jaime’s eyes. “If you could swing a sword again?”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Is it worth a chance? Even a small one?”

“I don’t trust you.”

Qyburn shook his head and sighed. “Understandable. Then I cannot help you.”

“Wait.” Jaime shut his eyes. _Do I dare? Else what do I have to live for? Would my sister still want me as I am now?_ Almost against his will he gave the tiniest of nods.

“I will give you milk of the poppy.”

“No milk of the poppy.”

“I cannot proceed without it. You must be absolutely immobile. I have studied the workings and mysteries of the human body more thoroughly than any man in Westeros. I have studied the living, the dead and those who hover between life and death. It cost me my chain.” He touched his bare neck. “I have no regrets. My skill, I can assure you, is unparalleled.”

“Where will you get a hand?”

“Do you really need to know?”

Jaime decided that he didn’t. If he agreed to this insane proposal… Had he even heard it right in his fevered state? He might regain a hand. _Or I might die, which would be acceptable._ He’d never feared death, but he couldn’t imagine showing his stump to Cersei. Or he might be forced to live as he was now, with no right hand. _I can always decide to die later._ “Do it. But I still don’t trust you. Where is the wench?”

“Wench?”

“The woman I arrived with. Tall. Ugly.”

“Ah, yes. Lord Bolton is making her welcome.”

 _Why does that sound ominous?_ “Get her. I want her to keep an eye on you.”

“Drink this and I will ask for her.” A cup was held to his lips. He tried to push it away but his nose was pinched closed and his head tipped back. He choked and swallowed.

****************************

There was a man in a bed. There was pain but it was like distant thunder. _Am I in the bed? Is this my pain?_ He thought it might be, but he couldn’t seem to open his eyes. Time passed. He woke. _Or did I?_ Sometimes a cup was pressed to his lips and he drank. Sometimes a cloth cleaned him. Once, bandages were unwound and the distant pain thundered closer and lightning flashed behind his eyes.

Then his vision cleared. He was real. The bed was real. The rough walls and the window were real. His name was Jaime Lannister, and he was awake. He moved his jaw and a creaking noise came out. “Water?” Someone was there. The wench. _Brienne_. Now he could remember her name.

“You’re awake.” She rose from a chair by the cold fireplace and went to the door, murmuring to someone outside, “The Kingslayer has woken up.” She moved to his bedside, poured water into a clay cup and helped him drink. “How long?” he asked her.

“You’ve been unconscious for five days.” He began to remember. The not-maester called Qyburn. Milk of the poppy, and gods… He slowly and painfully raised his right arm. It terminated in a bandage-swathed lump. At the end of the lump were fingertips.

****************************

It was three more days before the bandages were removed, leaving only a strip around his wrist. All that time, whenever he woke, Brienne was there, in the most hideous dress he had ever seen. Perhaps it was all that would fit her. _And I thought she was ugly in armor._ The gown was the pink of raw flesh, trimmed in brown fur, the colors of a butchered animal. “Have you been guarding me all along?”

“They took my sword and armor.” She blinked and her chin trembled slightly. “That didn’t release me from my vow to bring you safely to King’s Landing, for the sake of my lady and her daughters.” There was a deep frown line between her blue eyes. “I mistrust everything in this place, including you. What have you done?”

“I? Nothing, considering that I was asleep for nigh on a week, as you’ve told me.”

“You know what I mean.” Her scowl deepened.

“I do indeed.” They stared at what rested on the coverlet. The hand was whiter than his own. The fingers were stubby and there were wiry black hairs on the back and fingers. He looked at it with wonder and distaste. _This isn’t my hand, except that it is, now._ He tried to flex it. The fingers moved sluggishly, but they did move. He opened and shut the fist several times. It hurt, but not unbearably. He touched it with his left hand. It was warm. Brienne looked stunned. The line between her brows deepened. “That is not your hand.”

“Ugly, isn’t it? At least it doesn’t smell. Help me get this off.” He tugged at the cloth hiding his wrist. “I want to see.”

“Not until the maester…”

“He’s no real maester. Not that I care.”

She pressed her lips together and breathed disapprovingly through her broad nose but began to gently pull at the end of the bandage. He flinched and closed his eyes briefly when the last strip peeled away. His wrist was black, purple and yellow, and a thick line of zigzag stitches ran around it like an ugly bracelet.

“It’s not possible,” said Brienne softly.

“Yet here it is.” He turned his wrist and looked at it front and back. “At least you won’t be returning me to my family with a piece missing. My father and sister wouldn’t like that at all.”

********************

The next day he was invited to dinner by Roose Bolton, and Jaime began to realize for the first time the sheer scale of Harrenhal. Casterly Rock was huge, but it would have fit into one corner of Harrenhal. The entire castle was black, or so it seemed to him, though it had not always been so. The combination of dragonfire, dirt, smoke and neglect had darkened it beyond cleaning. It was said to be haunted; he had heard the stories as a boy. He no longer believed them, but certainly Harrenhal had been unlucky for any family that had held it. All their tenures had ended badly in one way or another. Nor had it been lucky for him. Outside its walls he had been raised to the Kingsguard, and then sent away, proving how little regard Aerys had for him, and how much the Mad King wanted to spite and humiliate his father. He had no fond feelings toward Harrenhal.

It was at least a fifteen-minute walk from the chamber where he had been held to the Hall of the Hundred Hearths, and this time Jaime paid more attention to the conversation around him.

“T’other two were quick enough to give him up. Guess that’s why they’re still here. Haven’t seen the girl, though.”

“Hear she’s not so pretty anymore. Shame about it.”

“Aye.”

“His lordship wants to be sure all’s settled and no more trouble before he leaves.”

Brienne was already seated when he arrived at the table set in the middle of the vast hall. She ate little and drank only water. Jaime and Roose Bolton played a game of words, and Jaime felt uneasily that he was missing something. Tyrion was better at this than he had ever been.

“I am… displeased by the incident involving your hand.” Bolton murmured, gesturing to the replacement. “I am glad that some… recompense… could be arranged. I have the greatest… respect… for your father.”

Jaime studied the hand. He lifted his wine – Lannister red – and it trembled only slightly. “He has respect for you – though your support of Robb Stark is regrettable.”

“I hope Lord Tywin will bear in mind that I’m returning you to King’s Landing as a gesture of goodwill.”

“My lord!” Brienne leaned forward, her voice echoing loudly in the cavernous space. “The Kingslayer will be escorted to King’s Landing under my protection, as I promised Lady Catelyn.”

“That will not be necessary. Walton is perfectly capable of that task.”

“I’m sure he is capable. That is not the issue. It is my responsibility. That, and to return her daughters to my lady.”

“You have been released from that responsibility.”

“Only Lady Catelyn can release me. You cannot.”

Jaime was entertained. _Stubborn doesn’t even begin to describe her._ “The wench, excuse me, the lady takes herself very seriously.”

“I take my vows seriously, unlike you.” She frowned at him, but then looked down at her plate. “I am thankful for the help you gave me after we were captured. That is all the more reason for me to take you to King’s Landing myself.”

“What help was this?” Bolton inquired softly.

Brienne’s voice was even, though a blotchy blush washed across her face. “Your men attempted to violate me. He prevented it.”

“Ah. I heard something of that. My apologies. But that is why I am arranging your return to your lord father on Tarth. I have sent a raven and I await his reply. Until it arrives, you will remain here under my protection. If he has not replied by the time I depart, I’m afraid that you will have to trust that Vargo Hoat deems your ransom satisfactory.”

Jaime almost felt sorry for her. He saw the ripple of her throat as she swallowed. “That is not protection; I am a captive, not a guest. If you were concerned for me, you would return my sword and armor.”

“You have no need. However, if you insist on… playing… Lady Brienne, you can amuse yourself with a tourney sword. You will be unlikely to harm yourself, or anyone else, with that.”

There was a commotion at the door. Vargo Hoat marched the length of the hall, his necklace jangling, spittle spraying from his lips. “Where ith he?”

Bolton was unmoved and unamused. “You forget yourself. It isn’t my task to keep track of your creatures.”

“He wath one of my best men!”

“Then I suggest you go look for him. You are causing a disturbance, and I mislike being disturbed. You may return to Harrenhal as I depart, Hoat. Excuse me, _Lord_ Hoat, a title I assume you wish to keep.”

“Thoon I will give the orders here!”

“But not yet. Now leave us.”

After the meal, Jaime was allowed to return to his chambers on his own. Apparently he was no longer considered to be either in danger or a danger. Brienne, however, was led away by two men in Bolton livery. _At least they’re not the Bloody Mummers._ They tried to grasp her by the arms, but she shook them off, her back straight and head high. She shot a brief, indecipherable glance at Jaime. He wondered if he would see her again before he left. _And why should I care?_

The ache in his wrist had diminished enough that he took more notice as he tried to thread his way through the maze leading back to his room. Harrenhal was on edge, more even than he would have expected. He heard a commander berating a guard, “Where’s your partner? You patrol in pairs! In pairs, always. Are you too stupid to count to two?”

“He had to take a shit. What was he supposed to do?”

“Let’s hope it’s not his last shit.”

Jaime wondered if some advantage could be found in the situation, but shrugged. He was on his way home in any case.

His sleep that night was broken by dreams he couldn’t quite grasp. They were both dark and satisfying, and he awoke with his muscles tense. His hand had marked the sheets with blood and an unpleasant black ooze. The need to hold a blade again was urgent.

*****************************

The body was discovered the following morning in the bear pit. It was slashed from breastbone to groin, and the dagger had been left inside. A scrap of parchment lay just outside the pool of blood. “I remember you,” was scrawled on it. Bloated lazy flies circled around.

“He was one of the ones…”

“Best not to talk about it.”

"The sooner we’re gone from here the better.”

Jaime listened to the talk and glanced into the pit with distaste. No wonder everyone was jumpy. He was on his way to the armory. When he gripped the hilt of a sword, he might feel like himself again. The armory seemed oddly familiar, though he was sure he’d never visited it before. He was not entirely surprised to find Brienne there in her pink dress, scowling at a rack of tourney swords, watched over by two smirking soldiers.

“Kingslayer.”

“Wench.” He grabbed one of the tourney swords. Better than nothing. He adjusted his grip and rotated his wrist. Not bad. His new hand seemed to know what it was doing. He swung experimentally. A little awkward. Not what he had been, but compared to the alternative… Brienne stood watching him with her usual disapproving expression. _Doesn’t the cow ever smile? Though I’m not sure I want to see it if she does._ He tossed the sword to her and she caught it deftly. “Spar with me.”

“You should not exert yourself. You’re still healing.”

“Don’t you want a rematch? As I remember it, I hadn’t finished chastising you.”

That caused a flash from her eyes. “As I remember it, I was holding your head underwater.”

“Then let us test whose memory is more accurate.” He selected a sword and tapped it against hers. They moved into position.

It was strange, but not impossible. The pathways from his brain to his arm to his hand weren’t as smooth as they had once been, but they functioned. What he had forgotten was how strong Brienne was. Twice he found himself yielding. It was frustrating. He had been too long abed, and she had recovered from the thigh wound he had given her by the river. So it was a sweet victory when he found a weakness and her sword flew from her hand.

They continued until they were both breathless and dark patches of sweat had appeared under her arms and between her meager breasts. The guards were no longer smirking.

“Tomorrow again, wench?” _She is a decent opponent. I hope for her sake that her ransom is enough, though it won’t be sapphires._ “In a few days we’ll be quit of each other’s pleasant company.”

"My name is Brienne, not wench." She gave jerky nod. “Your wrist is injured again. Go to Qyburn. I will take you.”

“No need. I know the way.” _I do, and how is it that I do?_

****************************

The next three days followed a pattern. Jaime sparred with Brienne, was examined by Qyburn and ate with Roose Bolton.

He could feel his strength returning. Brienne continued to shadow him. It was a uniquely irritating experience to be followed so doggedly by someone who despised him and yet felt responsible for him. At least the Maid of Tarth had a transparent purpose. Qyburn was indecently pleased by the result of his experiment. Jaime supposed he should be grateful. _I am grateful, but the man revolts me. His smiling and humming over my hand turns my stomach._ _How will Cersei feel when I touch her with it?_ The bruises began to fade, but the hand still looked like an alien object at the end of his arm. Qyburn prodded at the stitches and patted Jaime’s shoulder. Jaime shook him off. “Can these stitches be removed?”

“Perhaps someday. Not yet. The process of… integration is ongoing.”

As for Bolton, he was playing a game whose nuances weren’t easy to comprehend, but Jaime played along as best he could. One of the rules seemed to be to placate Tywin Lannister, a piece of information about Bolton which Jaime stored away to consider. Vargo Hoat and most of the Bloody Mummers had ridden out again at Bolton’s command, but Jaime remembered well who they were. Another piece of stored information. A few remained, but they had already been at Harrenhal when he was brought there; he had little interest in them.

All in all, while he couldn’t claim to be content, he would have tolerated his existence well enough, except for the dreams.

********************************

That night he felt as warm and peaceful as he did after milk of the poppy. He knew what he had to do. He knew where he was going. It was fine. There were no decisions, no plans, no fear. He would do what was necessary, and then he would sleep again. _But I'm sleeping now. Am I sleeping? Who am I?_ He awoke breathing harshly.

The second body lay at the foot of the Tower of Dread, smashed on the stones in a mess of blood, bone, brains and bowels. No one knew why he had been there or had seen him fall. This time the parchment read, “I’m still here.” The soldiers muttered uneasily around it.

*********************************

His dreams the following night were different. He was two people. One was as content as on the previous night and full of purpose, striding briskly. The other was pushing through a fog, trying to understand what was amiss, struggling to wake. Then he dreamt he was in the armory. Then in a kitchen passage, warm and scented with bread, roasted meat and garbage. He spoke to himself. _I know this place. I do not know this place. I am waiting. What am I waiting for? For the girl. What girl?_

He was awake. Now he was sure he was awake, in a corridor he had never visited before, wearing a mask he didn’t recall putting on, holding a sword in his left hand and with the right clutching a figure in front of him. He had never seen such fear on a woman’s face. It was marred with cuts and puffy with fading bruises. She clawed at the hand squeezing her neck. She couldn’t scream; her throat was choked and there was no breath in her. He released her and shoved her away. They staggered apart. “You’re dead,” she whimpered. “They told me you were dead!” She fled, stumbling, and clutching her neck. _Where am I? Why am I masked? What hour is it? Who was that woman?_ He was certain he had never seen her before. He could no longer bear the questions, and he was afraid of the answers.

*********************************

They had given her a room in the Widow’s Tower, several floors above his. He didn’t bother to knock, but roughly shoved open the door. He knew he must look like a madman. The chamber was small, bare, dark and dusty. The fireplace gave off flickers of light.

Brienne was sleeping, still in her dress, which grew grimier and more ragged by the day and night, but she sprang fluidly to her feet at the scrape of the opening door. _She has a soldier’s instincts._ “What are you doing here?” She cast her eyes about for a weapon, her muscles tense.

“It’s the only place I could think of to come.” He was panting, more than was justified by the climb to her chamber.

“Why? What has happened? What do you want, Kingslayer?”

“It’s…” He stared at her desperately. Her stubborn, homely face and guileless blue eyes seemed like a lifeline to sanity. “It’s me. It’s this.” He thrust his hand at her. “I don’t know what he did, but I…” His voice cracked. “What am I doing? Who am I?”

“I don’t understand. What are you talking about?”

“I dream. I wake up and I don’t know where I’ve been. I have a mask and a sword I don’t remember getting. How do I know my way around this cursed castle? In my dreams I’m two people, one watching and not understanding. The other…”

“Two people?”

“There was a girl by the kitchens. I didn’t know her, and I was trying to kill her. I know it makes no sense! There are two dead men since I came here…”

“There were deaths before, as I’ve heard.”

“Yes, but the dreams… they started when I woke up with the hand. I think I’ve been killing… in my dreams.”

She was keeping a wary eye on the sword he held. “The man in the bearpit. The man by the tower. If so, why? They weren’t the ones who maimed you. Did you know them? Did you mean to…”

“Haven’t you been listening? I have shit for honor, but I’m no murderer.” Her suspicious expression made him furious. “You think you know me? You don’t.” He threw down the sword and held out his arm, trembling. “Cut it off. I want to be rid of it.”

“Do you mean that?”

“I mean it. I only kill people I want to kill.”

“You tried to kill me.”

“I tried to escape.”

“I don’t understand you.”

“I will not be controlled by this! I tell you, when I kill I know it and I mean to do it. I’ve never killed anyone I didn’t intend to kill. Most of them deserved it.”

“Why have you come to me?”

“Because you’re the only person in this godsforsaken place that I trust!”

“I don’t trust you, oathbreaker.”

“And I loathe every bone in your self-righteous, judgmental, stupid, stubborn, naïve, ugly body! There’s no advantage to me in this! I hate everything about it. But if you do it I might even tell you the real truth about the Mad King. That is if you can unblock your ears enough to listen to it.”

In less dire circumstances he could have laughed at her face as she struggled between loathing, curiosity and a grudging compassion. She picked up the sword and weighed it in her hand. “I don’t understand you.”

“You keep saying that. I don’t understand myself. Just do it before I change my mind.” He shut his eyes. That was a mistake. There was a roaring in his ears. His eyes snapped open and he found himself in motion, lunging toward Brienne, his hand grabbing the sword to wrest it away. He twisted, trying to pry the hilt from her hand, and also trying to pull back and release it. She held on, and he was infuriated by her strength, and grateful it. His body and mind were splitting in two. He truly thought he would go mad.

She regained the weapon with a sharp twist of her powerful arm. The hand clutched the blade itself and black fluid dripped from it. Brienne hesitated no longer. She threw her weight onto his right arm, pinning it with her left. The sword sang, and Jaime screamed.

The severed hand lay on the floor, twitching. It didn’t bleed. Black sludge oozed from the wrist, and there was a terrible scent. Jaime retched. “Get rid of it. Put it in the fire.” Brienne kicked it into the flames, which hissed and flared and smoked foully. “Gods, gods, gods,” Jaime groaned as Brienne tore strips from a meagre towel to bind his wrist. There was less blood than there should have been. _But it's my own red blood, not black._ It trickled, but didn’t spurt.

“How was it done?” Brienne asked, cradling his arm gently.

“I didn’t know then, and I don’t want to know now. Hurts.”

“I’ll rouse Qyburn.”

“No. I can bear this, but I never want him to touch me again.”

**************************

The aftermath was unpleasant. Qyburn was angry that his experiment had been wasted. He was sure that “This problem could have been rectified if you had only come to me.”

“Rather than taking matters into my own hand?” Jaime asked in bitter amusement. “Let me put it this way. Rather than ever let you near me again, I’d sooner trust Vargo Hoat.”

Roose Bolton had his own concerns. “This has delayed our departure, and yours. I can wait no longer; I must leave for the Twins. The King in the North is expecting me. I suppose it’s as well that the matter of these deaths at Harrenhal has been settled. I hope that Lord Tywin will not be too displeased by the manner of it.”

“Lord Bolton, very little pleases my father, and this certainly will not. However, as to the events after I arrived here… They never happened.”

“I see. That may be the most satisfactory explanation. For almost everyone.”

“Give my regards to Robb Stark.” _Lannisters pay their debts. But this account will take some time to sort out and settle._

***********************************

Brienne had herself well-contained when he bade her farewell, but she no longer looked at him with loathing. The bath they had shared after his second maiming had – perhaps – washed him clean of more than dirt in her eyes. “You will deliver Lady Catelyn’s message to your father and to the king and dowager queen when you arrive at the capitol. Then you can arrange the release and return of Lady Sansa and Lady Arya.”

 _The wench is consistent. And single-minded._ It had been a statement, not a question, he noticed. Much had changed between them. “I will if I can.”

“You will. I trust your honor, Ser Jaime.”

He bent his head. “Goodbye, Brienne. And thank you.”

**Author's Note:**

> So... yuck! Sorry to put Jaime and Brienne through that, though it does seem like something Qyburn would enjoy doing.   
> If you want to read a fantastic (in several senses) horror story, I recommend the One-Sentence Halloween Fic-a-Thon at JBO!


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